Awake
by pharo
Summary: Will experiences turmoil at the prospect of ruining someone else's life.


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Awake

Author: Pharo

Disclaimer: 'Alias' belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, Touchstone, and ABC.

Summary: Will experiences turmoil at the prospect of ruining someone else's life.

Spoilers: "Page 47". I've messed around with the order of things, though.

Feedback: pharo@newyork.com

Author's Notes: The idea hit me and just wouldn't go away.

His nights were sleepless. In the beginning, they had simply been a desire not to sleep, to stay awake and be a "night person". However, it soon turned into an inability to fall asleep. No matter how many sheep he counted or how much warm milk he drank, the nights remained the same. His eyes refused to give in to the warm lullaby of sleep. No matter how tired he was, he remained wide-awake. The hours before he had to "wake up" for work were long and tiresome. 

At times, he'd stare at the blank canvas that was his ceiling and dream up different scenes that could be painted. The little gerbil in his mind ran furiously, cranking out so many ideas that the turning of the wheel became a simple blur. 

He saw the same handful of infomercials in rotation during those hours. They were the same products with different names and spokesmen. He'd seen the same wooden floor cleaner machine ad so many times that he was tempted to give in and buy it---never mind that his floors were all carpeted.

Other times, he'd go into the kitchen and make himself a sandwich, thinking maybe, food would help rest find it's way to him. He created different variations of the ordinary peanut butter and jelly sandwich: half jelly, half peanut butter on each slice or sometimes, a peanut butter and jelly swirl. In the end, it all tasted the same to him: dry and unsatisfying---just something to keep him occupied until it was time to go.

Eventually, he branched out and started making sandwiches for Francie and Sydney to take to work.

"Couldn't sleep again?" his friends would ask when greeted with the brown paper bags.

He'd nod.

"Bad week at work," he'd say, shrugging off his friends' worries.

The excuse was always a stupid article or an early deadline. The excuse was always a lie that they never questioned. After all, how were they supposed to know that he was tearing apart inside?

He tried very hard to cover up any indication of what was happening with him. He jammed his hands in his pockets before they caught on to the fact that his hands faintly trembled. He told them that he had been a little sick, which technically wasn't completely a lie. He brought up "allergies" that affected his eyes and made them red and teary. He told them that everything would blow over in a week or so when internally, he had no idea if he would ever be the same. Apparently his friends believed him because Sydney thought he was well enough to go to a dinner with her tomorrow night. He agreed because he wanted things to go back to normal.

His time at work was no better. He must've looked really bad on the third day of his "slump" for Kitvack to even think about giving him the rest of the day off.

"Tippin, get out of here."

"I still have an---"

"Now, out."

He drove through the city for an hour. He told himself that he had nowhere to go, but that was just another lie. He heard Kelly McNeil calling him. He did the only thing he could think of doing. He drove away faster, past the food places and flower shops, away from the crowds of people shopping during their lunch breaks.

Eventually, he caved and called her and asked her to meet him at a quarry out of city limits. He'd discovered it a couple of years ago when he was looking for inspiration for an article he had been writing. He promised her he'd have an explanation and she finally agreed.

When he arrived, he saw her waiting. 

"Will, you promised that you'd help him," she said without any greetings.

"I can't, I just---not if it means putting the lives of my friends in danger."

"You can't just stop now."

"I'm…I'm sorry."

"You gave me your word. You gave him your word."

"I have to go."

He had started to walk away, made it halfway back to his car when she uttered the horrible words.

"He's going to die in there if you don't help him!" she shouted.

He had to force himself not to turn around. He had continued to walk until he was safely in his car and driving away. He had stopped in the middle of his way back, parked in a nice suburban area---the type of place with neighborhood watches and housewarming gifts. He wished he had one of those lives.

He had sat in his car for ten minutes, head on the steering wheel, thoughts flying by too fast for him to process. Had he done the right thing? Was he indirectly the cause for David McNeil's solitary, unjust days in prison? No, he wasn't the cause for it, but the reason why he'd never be able to leave.

But if he helped him, in a sense, he'd be killing himself by slowly killing everyone and everything he loved. Starting from his occupation to the complete destruction of his friends and family. He saw all those movies where people erased others with the snap of their fingers. With the snap of the fingers that were holding onto McNeil, there'd be no more anything. No Francie or Sydney. No wacky kid sister, Amy, or sensible, intelligent parents, Patsy and Robert. The cause of it all would be himself, Will Tippin.

He received the image so clearly in his brain: himself in a mental institution, paranoid, thought of as delusional, but prominent of it all, he would be alone. He knew he was being selfish when he started up the engine to drive away from the place where perfect lives that he could never have existed. He knew he was selfish and tried his hardest not to care, to go back to the city where life went on without him. He expected nothing less than that.   
  
He looked behind him one last time, picturing past the neighborhood, across the highway, and back to the quarry where he left it all behind. He then put his car into drive and headed back home. Maybe he'd finally get some sleep with everything SD-6 related behind him. 


End file.
